“And,” Tiffany quickly replied, as she leaned under the awning to try to escape a bit of the damp wind, “those Santas are why I am here.”
“Can I get a copy of Life?” a heavy-set man asked, as he sidled up to the small outdoor store’s counter.
“Got one right here, Mr. Rice,” the newsstand owner announced. “Do you need anything else—cigarettes, gum, or a candy bar?”
“No,” came the quick reply, “just the magazine.”
“Okay, that will be fifteen cents.”
The customer flipped a quarter to Tommy and said, “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir, and have a Merry Christmas.”
“You, too.”
After the big man lumbered off, Tommy turned back to Tiffany. “That’s Jonathan Rice. He owns the drugstore down on the corner. They sell magazines and newspapers there, too, but he always buys his copies from me. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but he’s just a grand guy who wants to see an old carny keep eating.”
Tiffany smiled, “People like you because you are a quality person. Anyone who doesn’t smile when they come to this newsstand doesn’t have a heart.”
“I’m just happy,” he replied, “that’s the way God made me.” Tommy leaned a bit closer and said, “I know it’s too cold for you to hang out on this corner for long, so let me show you what I got.” He pulled three pieces of paper from his pocket and pushed them toward the reporter. As she picked them up, he explained. “Those are the permits the city hands out to the charity Santas who work the streets. The guys in the red suits could be arrested if they didn’t have those. Let’s just say I borrowed them tonight. Slipped them right out of their pockets when they stopped here to visit.”
“They all look the same to me,” she noted.
“They are,” he assured her. “In fact, you’ll notice that two of them even have the same name on the permits. And guess what?”
She looked up, “Fill me in!”
“Neither one of those guys is named Max Boyd.”
“You got a theory?” Tiffany asked.
“Don’t need one,” he explained. “I’ve seen this kind of scam before. Someone has stolen a batch of signed permits and they have also secured the names of all the real Santas working the streets. Then they use their blanks to make up extra permits with duplicate names. That way if a cop checks on one of them and then makes a phone call to city hall, the name always rings true.”
She smiled, “So, thanks to you, I’ve got something to run with.”
“I hope so,” he answered. “I don’t like to see little kids being cheated at Christmas.”
“Tommy, do you have any idea where the fake Santas are taking their cash?”
“No word on the street about that,” the little man explained. “That makes me think this is a real professional operation. The big cheese behind this caper must be someone that has the power to make sure no one talks. And there is only one man who fills that bill in Chicago.”
“Delono?”
“Miss Clayton, you said it, I didn’t.”
“But why?” she argued. “For the mob this is a small-time operation. I mean, there is not a huge bankroll made from coins folks are tossing in pots.”
Tommy pulled his green scarf tighter around his neck and nodded. “On the surface is seems that way, but in the circus, things also appeared one way and in reality were another. Consider the acts that sawed women in half or made tigers disappear. So you need to be looking for a sleight-of-hand trick. I don’t know what that is, but I’ve got to believe more than just a handful of change is disappearing right before our eyes.”
“Interesting,” the reporter said, her mind trying to grasp the scenario that Tommy had just laid out.
“Miss Clayton,” the newsstand owner suggested, his expression now much more serious, “This could be very dangerous. You might want to reconsider your investigation. After all, sometimes it’s best to accept that the tiger disappeared and not question how it was done.” He paused as if letting her carefully consider his words before adding, “Now please give me those permits back and I’ll make sure I get them to our Santas tomorrow. I’ll just tell them they must have fallen out of their pockets and I was fortunate enough to find them. I know the corners where each of them works. It will be easy for me to give them back with no suspicion falling on me or you.”
“Tommy,” the reporter asked, as she shoved the documents back his way, “Did you know any of these men before they were playing St. Nick?”
“Yeah, I know two of them real well,” he assured her. “Benny is a retired bookkeeper and maybe the best grandpa in the world. He’s like a big teddy bear. Horace is an old bachelor, a steady churchgoer who never drinks anything harder than grape soda. I can’t believe either one of them would be hooked in with a scam. But, I worked in the circus for all those years and never figured out the disappearing tiger trick either. I guess what I’m hinting at is that things are not always as they seem. Even good people can fall on hard times and then are forced into doing things they normally wouldn’t do.”
Tiffany shook her head, “You never know.”
“Miss Clayton,” there was a frown now framing the man’s expressive face, “why don’t you just drop this? As my friend who buys the racing forms would say, the odds aren’t in your favor.”
“I’ll think about it,” the reporter lied. “Now I’ve got twelve blocks to cover before I get to my apartment building, and it’s not getting any warmer. Thanks for taking a risk for me.”
“It was easy,” he laughed. “And I’d pretty much do anything for a woman as classy as you.”
Tiffany leaned forward, kissed Tommy on the cheek, and began the long walk home. She had something to go on now. It might not have been much, but at least she’d made some progress and, no matter the little man’s warning, she was in this game until the finish.
18
Friday, December 20, 1946
9:15 P.M.
Four blocks into her walk, Tiffany realized that as soon as she left her meeting with Little Tommy she should have grabbed a cab. It was far too cold for a woman in a skirt and heels to be trudging through the snow. Yet, as she was now a couple of blocks past where the open businesses and the city’s nightlife ended, she was stuck. At this time of night there would be no taxis venturing down the lonely streets she was walking. Thus, she was going to have to duck her head, gut it up, push on, and hope she got home before frostbite set in.
Two blocks further down the all but deserted street, the reporter stopped in front of a closed grocery, stepped out of the ferocious wind, and looked into the mirror on a pennyweight and fortune machine. She didn’t like what was reflected in the dim light. Snow was caked in her hair, under her eyes, and around her cheeks. Her lips appeared to be blue, but, in an attempt to be positive, she did her best to convince herself that was likely just the dark lighting on the street. Her brain might have bought the rationalization, but her chattering teeth didn’t. Still, blue lips or bad lighting aside, what the mirror really reflected was a woman who hadn’t used her common sense. No one with any brains walked twelve blocks on a night like this. The fact she’d tried it pretty much spelled out how smart she wasn’t. If she managed to live through this experience, she vowed to never let another living soul know about this long walk home. A shiver went down her spine, shaking her from head to foot, as she considered the grief Lane Walker would give her if he knew what she’d done.
Turning up her coat collar, she stepped away from the store and back to the curb to cross the street. An oncoming car, its lights reflecting off the snow and ice, forced her to wait.
“Come on,” she whispered as she stamped her feet in attempt to get her ever-thickening blood moving. As a blast of wind all but knocked her over, she glared toward the car and screamed, “Get moving. I can’t wait here forever.”
Tiffany was caught off guard when the sedan slowed down rather than sped by. She was even more shocked when the car pulled to a stop r
ight in front of her. What was this all about? Was someone actually taking pity on her? She didn’t have to wait long to find out.
A tall man, his face covered by a dark scarf, pushed open the passenger door and stepped out. He stared down at her for a moment before barking, “Get in the car.”
Tiffany glanced from the man giving the orders to the dark, four-door Buick. There were three other men in the vehicle and none of them appeared to be knights in bright armor coming to her rescue. She’d been around Chicago long enough to know hoods when she saw them.
“I’m fine,” she answered, mustering as much strength in her tone as a freezing woman could. “I live right up the way, I don’t need a ride.”
“You’re taking one, anyway,” came the gruff reply.
“I don’t need to bother you,” she snapped.
“Lady, you need to be taught a lesson. Now get in.”
“I’ve got a college degree,” she shot back, “I’ve learned enough lessons to last a lifetime. Now move on or I’ll call a cop.”
The man shifted his eyes up the street and then back to the woman, “Scream all you want, there’s no cop to hear you. Now get into the car or I’ll pick you up and throw you in.”
As the man reached out to grab her arm, Tiffany dug her heels into the snow, spun in her tracks, and brought the full weight of her large purse against his face. Due to the buildup of ice on the sidewalk combined with the force of the blow, he lost his balance, fell against the car, and slid down to the street. That was all the time the reporter needed to turn and race down the sidewalk in the direction of her apartment. As she ran, she considered her options. If only there was a store or diner open, but one glance proved there were no businesses with lights on. For a change, the city had no crews out working on the street or fixing water main breaks, either. And where were the cops when you needed them? Just her luck, the only folks awake at this time of night in this part of town were the quartet of goons and the reporter.
Tiffany covered about twenty-five yards before the man she’d knocked down recovered enough to reach into his coat pocket and retrieve a gun. He squeezed off four rounds, but his aim was bad; all of them went well over her head. He must have sensed she had too large a lead to catch on foot, because as she turned back to check, the thug opened the door and jumped back into the old sedan. A second later, it was rolling down the street in her direction.
As she tried to pick up her pace, her heels slipped and slid on the snowy concrete. At this speed, just keeping her balance required all her concentration. It was just a matter of time, perhaps seconds, before the heavy sedan would soon catch up with her again. So, if she couldn’t outrun them, she had to find a way to get some cover. But where? Most of the alleys in this area were dead ends. If she picked the wrong one she’d hit a wall and be cornered, yet the open street offered her no cover or options. Once again, where was a cop when you needed one? If she lived through this, she was going to have that saying made into a plaque and present it to Lane to hang on his wall.
As she raced by a closed drugstore, she stopped and tried the door; it was locked. The next three doors on the street were also shut tight. As she approached a corner, she took a deep breath and looked to her right. There was a snowplow just a hundred feet away and moving fast. Wisdom dictated she wait for the truck to cross, but with a quartet of men now just forty feet behind her wisdom was no longer a part of this equation. Digging her heels into the snow, she shot off the corner and rushed directly in front of the oncoming plow. It was moving faster than she’d figured. It was now so close she could hear the machine’s scraping blade grating against the pavement and feel the heat being generated by the truck’s roaring engine. As the lights caught her small frame, the driver hit the horn and the brakes. Tiffany ignored both and kept moving forward. She was almost safely across the street when she hit a slick spot, slipped off her feet, and landed on her stomach.
The truck was now ten feet away. One glance to her right was all it took to convince her it was not going to be able to stop. Rather than wait to be hit, Tiffany clawed at the street, moving forward about six inches a second. Then, as the shadow of the snowplow’s huge blade crossed over her, luck swung to her side. The truck’s driver managed to gain a bit of traction and jerk the wheel to the right, pushing the five-ton vehicle just far enough from the curb that the far side of the blade tossed about ten pounds of snow onto her body, but the blade never struck her. Picking herself up, now looking more like a snowman than a woman, a winded Tiffany turned and watched her luck continue. The Buick’s driver did not react quickly enough to the unfolding situation. The snowplow’s eight-foot-wide and three-foot-tall blade rammed into the car’s passenger side, tearing into the metal as it pushed the Buick more than fifty feet up the street. For a second, Tiffany thought she was safe, but that moment passed far too quickly. The thugs’ ride had no more than come to a stop when a short man dressed completely in black leapt out of the back driver’s side door and charged in her direction. It was now three blocks to her apartment and safety. Could she beat him?
For two blocks, she maintained about a forty-yard lead, then she caught a piece of ice with the heel of her left shoe, slipped, and fell. Though it only took fifteen seconds to push to her feet, it seemed like a lifetime. Glancing back she noted the man, all but his eyes hidden by a scarf, now just thirty feet away, had stopped and pulled out a handgun. As if frozen in place, she watched him squeeze off three rounds. Maybe it was the weather or the slippery surface, but all three went high, striking and bouncing off the brick building behind her. Saying a quick prayer of thanks, she turned to her right and took off again. If she could just make it another block and a half she would finally be safe.
Tiffany’s lungs now ached as each new breath brought searing pain. Her legs, scraped from her falls, were failing her, too. Her strides were shorter and her pace slower. As her body continued to break down, there were also cracks in her resolve. With each new step, her mind was screaming that she simply couldn’t continue. And though she didn’t look back, she sensed the predator was getting closer and, in fact, she could now clearly hear his footsteps in the snow. A few seconds later, she swore she could even feel his breath on her neck. Surely, at any moment, she would feel his hand on her shoulder and he would drag her to the pavement. Just as she neared the corner, an Oldsmobile motored up the far side of the street, swerved across to the curb, and slid to a stop. With the car now blocking her path, she knew it was over. The race was lost just one short block from home.
As she slowed to avoid running into the car, the vehicle’s passenger door flew open and from inside a man’s voice screamed, “Get in!”
Too tired to argue, an exhausted Tiffany ducked her head and literally fell into the Olds.
“Shut the door,” the man demanded.
With her last ounce of strength, the reporter yanked it closed. When it was secure, the driver hit the gas and rapidly motored away from the curb. After taking a deep breath, Tiffany pushed herself upright in the seat and looked toward her left. She was shocked to see Bret Garner behind the wheel.
19
Friday, December 20, 1946
10:00 P.M.
Where do you want to go?” Garner asked, as he flashed his eyes to the rearview mirror. So far, things were fine. No one was following them.
Tiffany took a deep breath and muttered, “I guess my place.”
“No problem,” he shot back. “Let me drive around a few blocks to make sure no one is on our tail, and then I’ll head back in that direction. Meanwhile, why don’t you see if you can catch your wind and rub some of that snow off your face and your clothes. I’ll turn the fan up a notch and you can open the heater doors to help you warm up faster.”
“I’m so cold my head hurts,” she moaned, as she leaned forward and reached up to the dash to swing the heater doors wide open.
“That’s what you get for playing in the snow,” he sniped.
“Yeah,” she shot back, “that was i
t. If only you knew the whole story.”
“Time for that later,” he suggested. “There’s a blanket in the back seat. Grab it, wrap up, and try to keep your teeth from chattering. I hate the sound.”
“Well,” she cracked, “I’m sorry. I’m not a big fan of it either.”
Garner made a right turn and again checked the mirror. So far so good! As he pulled up to a red light, he glanced over to his passenger. If she was injured, at least it was not too badly. She already was feeling well enough to wrap herself in the Indian blanket, huddle close to the heater, and pour snow out of her shoes onto the floorboard. In truth, all things considered, she looked pretty good. Maybe the worst that would come of this would be a few scrapes and bruises and perhaps a cold.
“You warming up?”
“Yeah,” she assured him. “At this rate I will be up to zero by Easter.”
The investigator wanted to press her for information. He wanted to find out why the guy had been chasing her and what had happened before he came along. But for the moment, it was enough that she was safe. Now, if she would quit chattering her teeth.
Garner drove around for ten minutes before turning the Oldsmobile south and heading back to the reporter’s apartment building. After parking the car on the street, he walked slowly around the car, his eyes darting to every dark doorway and alley. Satisfied they were alone, he opened the woman’s door and silently escorted her up three flights of stairs. The investigator’s eyes locked onto the stairway as she dug through her huge purse and found her keys, unlocked, and opened the door. He then shifted his gaze to Tiffany as she switched on the overhead light, yanked off her coat, dropping it onto the floor, kicked the shoes from her feet, and collapsed on the couch. Grabbing a throw pillow, she hugged it close to her chest and closed her eyes. He could sense she was not sleeping, but saw no reason to interrupt her. She needed some time to sort things out and evaluate what had happened. He was perfectly willing to give it to her.
The Fruitcake Murders Page 12
